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Page 143
lands, there is no reason to be angry with those who fight against me. Or, at least," Ian's lips twitched, "not so angry as that." He gestured toward the shambles in the clearing.
There was interest in Geoffrey's eyes now, and a tinge of color in his cheeks. Ian judged that whatever shock the boy had was sufficiently dissipated to allow time and the next battle, which was bound to be cleaner, to complete the process of adjustment to violent death. An unguarded crashing, to which Ian had been attending with half an ear while he soothed Geoffrey, resolved itself into the gray destrier being brought around through the woods behind the clearing because no one dared try to lead it across past the dead men. Ian looked at the horse and barely restrained a shudder.
Blood dyed the destrier's legs right to the hocks and splattered the belly and breast and even the face. Two men hung on the reins close to the bit and two others to the harness. Even with that weight restraining him, the horse persisted in trying to rear and snap. Weals on shoulder and neck showed where someone had taken a stick or the flat of a sword to the animal. Ian's mouth opened to ask who had committed that outrage, and then closed. Doubtless there had been no other way to subdue him. In essence he had committed the outrage himself by abandoning the poor dumb creature to his own devices. Trained to respond to the smell of blood with rage instead of the normal reaction of terror, the horse had run as mad as he when the controlling hand was gone.
Ian gathered the rein in his hand and rose into the saddle. As soon as his feet found the stirrups, the men sprang away from the horse's head and ran for safety. It was, as Ian had foretold, completely unnecessary. The stallion stood quietly now that authority and security had been restored with the solid weight on his back and the steady pull of the bit on his lips. Ian

 
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